Dungeons and Dragons: Howling at Gray Mantle
by Archangelmarkov
Summary: *Disclaimer* This story uses elements of Forgotten Realms as well as Homebrewed locations. It does not follow the official cannon of the Forgotten Realsm novels. This story does depict some violence and gore. This story was originally published by yours truly at /story/13589858-Dungeons-and-Dragons-Howling-at-Gray-Mantle-pt.-1-by-Windswept-Ginger-adult.
1. Prologue

When traveling into the mountains it is difficult to pinpoint the moment that the cold finally strikes. It is a creeping feeling, like a snake in the grass. With each passing hour feeling like an eternity, eventually one begins to really feel the cold and forget the moment you stopped feeling warm. One turns to camp fires at night, or to an ale flask in the day to keep warm, knowing it will not last. Each night whilst the cold bites your toes, you're greeted with a lullaby of wolves howling.

Its times like these when a single candle flame can bring either life or death to the traveler. On one hand, a light can mean a hearth and a warm meal. On the other, it may spell trouble for any who would be prowling on poor folk in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Such was the case for the old man, Dean.

Dean drove a carriage betwixt two small villages; Greenwood in the foothills, and Gray Mantle on the plateau. Gray Mantle being high in the mountains hadn't much useful farmland save for some scarce mountain herbs. Their dependency for crops left Dean not wont for business, seeing as he'd see to the deliveries himself. Whilst away, his sons would tend to the farm for the few days he'd be gone.

Most times, the only souls Dean would see whilst making the climb up Mount Elven Ear were the occasional rabbit or fox. Not this time; for up ahead was a small camp fire showing brightly in the morning light. Dean fixed his hat, shielding his eyes from the sun to get a better look. Ahead he saw a few figures sitting beside a pathetic fire, their gaze fixed on the poor carriage driver.

The men approached him, each one with a hand rested on their sword's pommels. "You alright mate? Whats the hurry?" one of the men said coming to the side of the carriage. "N-Nothin'. No hurry lads. Just bringin' some things up to Gray Mantle." Dean stammered back to the man, as the other four brought up the rear. "Well then, pr'haps you wouldn't mind us takin' a peek at yer wares? Gotta pay the toll, ya see. Checkin' for contraband."

Dean was as appalled as he was terrified. "B-but theres never been no toll here before?!" he said, as the other goons began to climb into the cart. "Well times is hard for us poor folk, eh lads?" their leader slurred. The rest of the band each let out a grunt or chuckle of approval. Dean knew he was doomed the moment he saw their blades, but he never expected what came next.

Before he knew it, he felt a crack against the back of his head. His vision grew blurry as his hands loosened from the reigns. The last he remembered was the sounds of his horses being cut free, and the frosted ground rising to meet his face.

Dean awoke sometime later, feeling a great pain in the back of his eyes from the shock. The nape of his neck was wet, most likely a mixture of blood and frost from the ground. He took inventory of his situation, which was growing ever more grim by the moment. He saw his carriage parked along side this small encampment made by the bandits. The five men sat around their fire, feasting on the vegetables from his stock. His heart grew weary as he took note of his horses' absence.

He reached to stand, only to find that his limbs were bound. He then took note of the tree against his back. "Rise and shine, you old git." barked the gang's apparent leader. "You got some nice things back there, but not much gold. That's too bad." The ring leader pulled the small pouch of gold Dean had been carrying from behind the log which he sat. "Not nearly enough to pay the toll, my friend. What'd you wager your family would pay to get you back?"

Dean stammered, feeling his loins moisten and grow warm from his fear. "We ain't got nothin' Sir. Please let me go, I'll do whatever ye like. Just let me see my family again, please Sir, I beg ye!" Dean was nearly certain this was the end, when he heard something in the distance. Some ways down the road he came, was the clopping of hooves. One of the bandits whispered harshly "Someone's coming. Quick, lets get out there!"

Before leaving, the leader whispered to Dean, "You keep quiet, ye hear? Do that, and you'll see your family again after the ransom." He watched as the five men took up a line, with their leader in the middle to meet their newest guest.

The man rode on a finely kept horse, it's color nearly blended with the snow. He wore a long brown traveler's coat which must have stretched down behind his knees when he stood. Underneath the coat was a white shirt that made a strange sound when he moved. at his hip was the hilt of a long blade. The bandit called to him, "Hold on there, mate. If ye want to pass, ye gotta pay the toll."

The horse stopped about ten feet away from the bandits as the rider locked eyes with the bandit. A moment passed between the two men; as if measuring each other's strength through just a passing glance. There was a tense silence as the rider proceeded to do the same with each of the five men.

The bandits, growing more uncomfortable, looked to one another for some sort of indication as to what to do. Finally, one of the bandits piped up. "You deaf? Ye gotta pay the toll if ye wanna pass." Their leader shot daggers at him with his eyes as he called out, "Yeah! Ten gold for erm.. taxes! Yeah, taxes for a new road to Greenwood!"

The Rider let out a long sigh and hung his head before he dismounted his horse. Without looking at the highwaymen, the man rummaged through his bags. With his leather gloved hand, he pulled out a pouch with a heavy jingle to it. Reaching into the purse, he pulled out a shining coin and flipped it with his thumb to the bandit leader. The coin flipped through the air, shining with a bright polish before falling at the man's feet. The rider spoke very clearly, and with little accent, in an almost disinterested tone. "That should be able to cover the cost. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll just be on my way."

The bandit leader was quite visibly annoyed by the Rider's insolence. He crouched down to grab the coin, and in an instant drew his shabby blade. "What d'ye think this is, a joke? You havin' a go at me? I said Gold, not silver you twat!" The other men followed with their own weapons as they began to move closer to their supposed jester. "Yes, you said gold. I retorted with a platinum. You're welcome." the Rider said with more than a hint of sarcasm. "Oh yea? What about that purse ye got there? Might be nice to help stock the village coffers, right lads?" The rest of the thugs showed their agreements through ugly grunts, laughs, and mockeries of what once must have been smiles.

They began to close the distance on the rider. They each bared their greedy eyes at the horse's saddle bags. If this man had one platinum, surely he had more. "Honestly, friends, you don't want to do this." The Rider said, not moving from his horse. The men were only a few feet away when their leader spoke "You're outnumbered, mate. Looks like this'll be easy pickin's lads! Get 'im!"

The bandits each chose a direction to swing at their opponent. As their blades moved to meed their intended mark, they could hear a quick mumbling from the rider. Just before the swords met their mark, they were stopped by an unseen force. The air rippled around the blades as they were forced away from the rider. The rider then drew his blade and held it down to his side with two hands. The blade was rippled from folded steel, but the metal was something all together different. It didn't have the same glint as steel, and it seemed to radiate a strange presence about it. It was as if the blade was cutting the very breeze as it passed over the blade. The hilt was finely decorated with dark steel wings serving as a cross guard. The handle, being long enough to be wielded with one or two hands, was gripped with black leather and silver wiring for the grip. Its pommel was viciously decorated with a sort of spike that surely was as deadly as the rest of this weapon.

With a stroke as elegant as it was brutal, the Rider moved his blade from right to left in the blink of an eye. A shriek of terror and pain followed the swing as the bandit leader collapsed to the ground. Blood was oozing from the stump which was once home to his elbow. His blood flew in all directions as he failed and struggled to regain control. His companions each in a fit of rage, continued their attack, only to be met with a similar fate. One of the men hoisted his sword high to strike the head of the stranger, only for his blow to be deflected. As punishment, the Rider followed up with a repose, rending the man from his right kidney to his rib cage. The next tried to take the rider from behind, only to be repelled by the rider's impenetrable shield. The Rider spun round, delivering a brutal kick to the man's stomach, forcing him to keel over. Like that of an executioner, the bastard sword quickly dispatched the assailant with an easy decapitation.

There were only two left, amidst the screams of their leader, the two charged on. One carried a mace, as opposed to their signature blades. He swung low, hoping to deliver a blow to the rider's chin at best, his groin at worst. The rider deftly sashayed out of reach of the mace, putting him in just the worst position to be struck by the sword wielder. His blow was met with little response as the badly damaged sword broke against the barrier. With a twirl the swordsman was cut down by the Rider, his blood nearly shooting from the deadly gash that cut from the shoulder deep into his lung. He couldn't so much as scream before the rider's attention was turned to the last bandit. This one wasn't like the others. He was larger, meaner, and carried with him a blood lust. He didn't want the gold, he wanted to kill. With a roar, the bandit charged furiously. The rider extended his hand before the man could close the distance. From his palm, a bright light shined and a small burst of flames slammed into the brute's face. In a moment, the flames engulfed the brutish thug as he collapsed to the ground. The Rider strode to him and put his sword through the man's heart, ending his suffering.

The Rider slid his bastard sword back into it's scabbard, it's blood lust now quenched. He turned to the leader, to find he was gone. A trail of blood lead away from the carnage into the camp, where the Rider quickly found him crawling away gasping for air. With one foot the rider turned the bandit on his back to face him. The bandit looked up at him in sheer terror. "W-who are you? What are you?" The rider gave no answer as he drew his blade one final time and drew a line across the man's neck, ending his misery.

Dean watched the entire ordeal with a mix of relief and horror. His savior turned from the bodies to him with a look of shock on his face. The Man approached Dean, "Are you hurt, Sir? I'm terribly sorry you had to see all that, but I knew they weren't going to let me go whether I paid them or not." Dean, still restrained looked up and tried to babble a response, but found he was too frightened to even attempt it. The Rider looked around, and found in the camp Dean's slain horse and cart. "I assume this is yours?" The Rider said with a hint of lightheartedness in his voice. Dean was still stricken with fear as he stammered "Aye, it's mine. These brigands captured me hours ago." The Rider had crouched to free Dean "Ah, so he does have a voice. Can you walk? Are you injured?" Dean rose. free from his restraints to find that the rider was of average height, and strikingly handsome up close. "Aye. Thank ye, stranger. I should be alright to get back to Grey Mantle from here."

"Nonsense, Grey mantle is still quite some ways off. As it happens I'm headed there as well. Let me ready my horse to carry your cart. We should travel together." Dean was astonished by the sudden kindness shown by this man, who only minutes ago cut down five men without so much as a scratch. "That's very kind of you, Sir Knight." Dean was able to stammer back. The Rider chuckled at the mention of a title. "Oh no, Sir, I'm no Knight. Just a man who knows how to hold a blade. I travel from place to place, chasing storms and helping when I can."

Dean was perplexed at this sudden change in the man. As the rider began to ready his horse with the cart, Dean finally asked. "Well then, may I ask your name, lad? I'm Dean." The Rider stopped to turn and answer, "My pleasure, Dean. My name is Damiel, and this one here is Horst." The horse made a sound as if to winnie his approval.


	2. Chapter 1: Village In the Mountains

Damiel found himself in rather interesting company for the remainder for the day, and into the night. He and Dean spoke of a great many things along their rather dull road to Gray Mantle. They spoke mostly of Greenwood, and of the farm. Dean found that the elegant warrior could be quite the chatterbox when a particular subject struck him.

At the campfire that night, Dean finally gathered the strength of wit to ask his savior a rather obvious question. "So, lad, what exactly was it that brought you out this way? There isn't much to be found in the way of adventurin' out this way. All there is, is that bloody mountaintop." Damiel let out a bit of a chuckle as he watched the flames dance the night away. "As it happens, my friend, that's exactly what I've come for."

Dean was puzzled at this, knowing that Mount Elven Ear, aside from it's namesake, had nothing otherwise remarkable about it. "You see, I used to be a Knight. I've hung up my sword in the service of Lords and Ladies in favor of something more fulfilling in life." As he said this, Damiel took his pack, and propped it against a stump as a makeshift pillow. "I've taken up storm chasing. I watch signs in the weather, and go where ever the wind takes me." He was now looking listlessly at the cloudless night sky. With a gloved finger, Damiel traced outlines in the air of the different constellations he could see from his perch below the stump.

Dean listened eagerly to the Knight speak of himself in such a way. He'd never met a Knight before, much less one so young as this man. Dean, being a father of three boys and nearly a grandfather, guessed that the young man couldn't have seen more than twenty five summers. His eyes suggested he was telling the truth, or at least most of it. There was something hidden behind those aquamarine irises that Dean just couldn't put his finger on. How could a man so young dare to call himself retired? Where did he learn to cast magic as wizards do while flourishing a blade like he does? Furthermore, where did he get such a magnificent blade?

Regardless of his interest, he knew one thing was certain; Damiel was hiding something.

Just then, Damiel stood rather quickly. "I'll take first watch, if it pleases you. Horst can take second. He's a good horse, isn't he? Sleep well, Dean. Gray Mantle isn't much further off." He lovingly stroked Horst's mane before walking off a little ways to keep an eye on the road. Dean would never get used to the strange behavior of this young Knight, but he resigned to believing he'll never know.

The next morning's travel was quite easy on the two unlikely companions. The cold was as relentless as ever, yet the wind was quite merciful in her wrath. It seems the mountain, dominating the horizon, decided to allow them safe passage. It was just after noon when the two men arrived in the small village of Gray Mantle.

Gray Mantle was a shabby little village. Isolated from most of the world in it's frost covered prison on the steppes of Mount Elven Ear. The small town was built using nearly petrified wood from the surrounding pine forest. Many of the homes look run down and ancient, possibly being over eighty years, to one hundred years old. Upon a closer inspection, one could easily see the wear and tear from several snow storms and blizzards at every structure.

Aside from the mountain, there were only two major points of interest in the village itself. There was "Todd's Inn," set rather close to the road, and deeper into the town Damiel could see an old chapel set at the head of the town's square. It seemed that Gray Mantle had seen better times, even by the considerably low standards of such a hovel. The people looked especially tired, and somewhat depressed. Moreover, as Damiel became more acquainted with the small streets, the people eyed him with what appeared to be disgust.

He took his time, taking in the sights. After an hour or two of walking, Damiel took a moment to admire the ancient church. It was the only signs of masonry in the entire village. A tall, pointed belfry shown high like an old lighthouse in the sad little village. A rose window decorated the facade of the place, but the light struck it in such a way that Damiel couldn't make out what was the artwork.

When Damiel tried the door, he found it wouldn't budge. There was no rattle to indicate any sort of lock, the door simply didn't move. "I must be out of practice. Getting too weak." Damiel muttered, mocking himself. Damiel gave a great heave, but to no avail. It was as if the doors were made to be so heavy, they would be impossible to open. Damiel was getting rather irritated. "What in the Nine Hells is this?"

It was then Damiel heard a feeble giggle from across the square. An old woman was sitting at her porch watching this ordeal, apparently taking great pleasure at watching the young Knight struggle. Damiel, feeling rather silly and stupid, decided to move across the square quickly to speak with her. "Beg your pardon, Ma'am. but why is this chapel all locked up?" He asked, trying to stifle his agitation. The crone did her best to hide her laughter, mostly failing to do so. "Oh never ye mind that old buggery, stranger. That things been locked up and forgotten for twenty five years. Bad luck, ye see? There's an old story about that church. Nobody can get in, and nobody wants to."

"But why would anyone lock up a chapel and leave it be in such a state? Must be quite the eyesore every day." Damiel said, trying to contain his true question. That being "Why won't the doors move, even when pushed and pulled?"

The old woman pondered for a moment, shutting her eyes and sighing as she did. She took a moment to him up, as if measuring his stature. "If ye want to hear the full story, go see Jesmond at Todd's Inn. Tell him that Gran wants him to tell ye the whole story." Gran said reluctantly. "I was headed there next. Might be nice to have a drink, and a tale. Is he your grandson?" Said Damiel. The woman laughed as heartily as her old voice allowed her. "Oh-ho no! I'm the oldest woman in the village. Everybody calls me Gran. Jesmond was a waif I took in some years ago. He has more right than any to call me Gran."

Damiel fancied a smile at the thought of this young man's life living with such a woman. Damiel felt a strange as he met her eyes for a moment. It was as if she could see into him on some other level. He felt his very being shudder from her gaze alone. This feeling left Damiel feeling rather uneasy, he gave her a nod of recognition and set off on his way. As he turned from the old woman, she called out to him. "Young Knight! When Jesmond is finished with his tale, would you mind helping him home?" He felt as if he was unable to resist her charm and said "Of course, Gran." As he carried on to Todd's Inn.

In mountain villages such as these, it could be difficult to tell the difference between sundown, and the shadow of the mountain. Regardless of which it was, Damiel could feel the blanket of darkness shrouding the downtrodden people of Gray Mantle. As He moved closer to Todd's Inn and away from the chapel, Damiel couldn't shake the feeling like he was being watched. He spun round slowly, scanning his perimeter. He felt eyes coming from that damned Chapel. If there be anything inside, Damiel was sure, it knew he was there.

Damiel shook the feeling away as he entered the already noisy Inn. From the moment he set foot inside, the feeling of surveillance were already being replaced by feelings of repulsion. It became stunningly clear, that He was not welcome. The room was set full by tables and a bar in the back. To the left side was a staircase that lead up to a balcony. This must be where the guest's rooms were. Conversations were wrapped up, or interrupted by the sound of the door as the room became much quieter. However, the room never became silent, as there were the sounds of lute strings being plucked coming

from a small, lonely table in the far right corner.

Damiel paid the patrons no mind as he strode straight to the bar. Behind it stood a rather portly man with a dark beard. Unlike the rest of the patrons, this man looked eager and happy to see a new face in town. "Well what 'ave we got 'ere! Stranger in town? Well let me be the first to welcome ye to Gray Mantle. The name's Todd, and this is my Inn. Can I get ye a drink Mister...?" He grabbed his belt as he spoke. His height was as imposing as his girth, as Damiel truly noticed when he finally sat at the bar. "Damiel. I'd love an ale, thank

you."

Todd poured as he spoke. "Aye, that'll be a copper. SO what brings ye to our humble little town? We don't get many adventurers round these parts." Damiel flipped the man a coin and drank deep. The ale was probably some of the worst Damiel had ever tasted, but after traveling for so long to get here, He didn't much care. "I'm not your typical adventurer. Sure, I'll lend my blade here and there, but mostly I'm a storm chaser. I watch which way clouds go, and I follow them. I saw a pretty interesting storm heading this way up from Neverwinter, and thought I might take a look."

It was then, Damiel noticed the lute was silent. Finally he looked to see the bard, Jesmond leaning a chair by its hind legs against a wall with his feet on a small table. Damiel then realized that Jesmond was only about three feet tall, with long pointed ears. "I was enjoying your song, young Halfling. Why did you stop?" Damiel asked, not unfriendly. In a slightly high pitched voice, Jesmond spoke while getting off of his chair to come sit next to Damiel. "I was curious about your tales, traveler! Even if you don't adventure like most others, you may have a story I've never heard before, and that's always a good sign. Everyone here's already heard all my tales. Lets have another ale for me there, Todd!" Jesmond struggled to get up to the bar stool beside Damiel, but refused his hand when it was offered. Todd gave Jesmond a look which spelled certain death to any who would dare meet his gaze. Yet the Halfling seemed to relish this disposition.

Todd reluctantly passed the bard a much smaller cup of ale; one proportionate to his size. This seemed to agitate the small man, saying "What's this all about then? You trying to stiff me?" The patrons let a murmur of laughter at this. It seemed that this was a regular occurrence between the innkeeper and the young bard. "Look Jes, last time I gave ye a tankard, ye tried to kick Bradley in the shin 'cause ye wrote a limerick about his Mum, and he didn't like it. Instead, ye missed and knocked me out of my chair. Made me spill me beer all over me self. You're not gettin' drunk in this 'ere Inn again. You understand?" Damiel couldn't help but stifle a chuckle at the thought of the Half-man kick anyone. It would be as if a child tried to fight a bear. Jesmond was quite clearly angry at this, but chose to let it go as he downed his ale through the entire Inn's laughter.

Damiel couldn't help but stop his laughter as he felt bad for the poor man. "Jesmond, was it? I could tell you a story of mine, but in exchange, I'd like to hear one of yours." Jesmond didn't look up from his small cup. "Yeah? Well my stories are all bollucks anyhow. No use telling seasoned knight like yourself any of mine." He punctuated his self deprecation with a drink. "Nonsense. I haven't heard any yet that I didn't enjoy. Besides, Gran said you could tell me about that Chapel." Jesmond nearly choked on his ale. He tried to speak in a quiet tone. "Damned Gran. I love the old bat, but sometimes she really should leave it alone. Come over to my table here and we'll talk. I like to sit here when I'm wanting to be alone."

Damiel followed Jesmond to the corner, flipping another coin to Todd for another round. Jesmond propped up his chair and took up his lute again "This story goes back to the founding of the village. You want the long version? Or to the point?" Damiel was quick to say, "I've got plenty of time until the storm begins. Please do tell." Jesmond beamed with excitement as he plucked his strings, absentmindedly allowing his fingers to set a mood of mystery for his tale.


End file.
